


During

by oleanderhoney



Series: The Colour of Light [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dialogue style, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Interim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at the Pool, Jane and Sherlock try to piece together the remains of their relationship. </p><p>A short interim in the months following the devastation Moriarty left in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the next 'mini' installment of The Colour of Light series. You all have been so encouraging and wonderful, and I know you all have been looking forward to the ASiB redeux. As always I appreciate feedback, and your opinions and comments are invaluable to me. 
> 
> xxHoney
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and characters belong to Mofftiss and the BBC as well as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

* * *

Jane and Sherlock hobble out of the taxi in the early morning, trying not to jar their respective injuries. Sherlock straightens stiffly, an arm protectively wrapped around his ribs while Jane balances awkwardly with her cane and air cast. After paying, Sherlock goes ahead to unlock the door. Jane stands for a moment on the pavement outside 221B, hand tightening around the grip of the cane as she watches the sun rise, lightening the sky bit by bit. Her body feels exhausted — being kidnapped by a psychopath, dug out from under a building, and spending six hours in A&E made her want to sleep for years — but she is completely wired despite herself.

“Jane?” Sherlock calls from the open door, and she turns to him. His eyes catch the light like opals, the tension in the corners lend a depth to his iridescent gaze that pierces her straight through. Her heart clenches in her chest as she drinks in the sight of him for the hundredth time since they were pulled from the rubble of the explosion; when she was convinced she would never see his face again, unsure if they would be rescued in time before the rest of the structure collapsed. She blinks away her tears, frustrated that there seemed to be an endless supply of them all of a sudden, and bites her lip. He makes his way carefully down the few steps at the front door and comes over to her. “Is it your leg?” he says softly, eyes flickering over her with unguarded concern.

“I’m _fine,”_ she says roughly, and storms past as best as she can, the aluminium cane clacking hatefully in her wake. She stops in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them balefully. It looks like a mountain from where she’s standing, and she presses the tips of her fingers into the crease of her brow and lets out a deep breath. Sherlock hovers next to her, and it grates on her frayed nerves. “Will you just —!” she snaps and gestures for him to go ahead. She reins in her temper, and bites her lip again, the small forgotten cut twinging sharply. The pain gives her something else to focus on, and she softens her voice. “I’ll be right behind.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, clearing his throat. “Tea, I should think.” And with that he breezes up the stairs — well as best as he can with three broken ribs. Bloody swan. The image makes her smile a little, and she feels bad for snapping at him. God she needed to hold it together. She shakes out her hand before gripping her cane and mounting the stairs.

“I must really look like shit if you are actually making tea,” Jane tries to joke, but it takes energy she doesn’t have to sound convincing. She lowers herself delicately into her chair.

Sherlock grunts, and brings over a mug of steaming tea, and she reaches out with her left hand without thinking. The tremor rears up and before she has a chance to realise, she sloshes the hot liquid all over her hand and drops it to the floor.

 _“Damn it!”_ she swears and jumps up, forgetting about her leg. Her knees buckle and she lists to the side. Before she can lose her balance, however, Sherlock is right there steadying her. She holds back a traitorous sob and her ineptitude, and rests her head in the middle of his chest, defeated. “Damn my leg,” she says weakly. “Damn everything.”

“To the furthest pits of hell?” Sherlock quips softly, and a watery laugh gusts out of her.

“To the furthest pits of hell,” she confirms, and gingerly wraps her arms around him. He presses his lips to the top of her head and breathes in deeply. She wants to melt into his embrace, but a jittery sort of panic suddenly seizes her, and she pulls away.

“Jane?”

“I think I – I’m just going to go to bed,” she says, face burning. She swipes a tear away from her chin with her shoulder and takes up her cane.

“Yes. Right,” Sherlock says. “Do you want me to —?”

“Good night, Sherlock,” she says, hurrying away. She needs to clamp down on that insidious anxiety before it breaks free and runs rampant. 

She makes it to her room, and barely closes the door before she slides down it and collapses in tears. She puts a hand over her mouth and cries silently, mentally screaming at herself to hold it together. She would _not_ have a panic attack. She wouldn’t. She angrily stuffs it away back into its battered box, and crawls to her bed not having the energy to stand. She drags herself up and curls on her side, fully dressed, tears sliding off her nose and staining the pillow.

She falls asleep that way before the sun has fully reached the sky.

* * *

Sherlock lays on the sofa with his hands prayer-like against his lips sometime later.

“Dreadful, just dreadful,” Mrs. Hudson tuts as she dusts the mantle. “I am so glad you both are okay.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hums, tuning her out.

“Imagine my shock. I saw it on the telly first thing this morning. I didn’t even know you were gone. It was your brother who finally got around to telling me, and if it weren’t for him, I’d have worked myself into such a state,” she goes on as she takes to beating the dust out of the Union Jack pillow. “It’s not good for me, you know. I take to pacing when I’m anxious and I’ve got a hip.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says again.

“You couldn’t even tell an old woman when you got back. Shame on you Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson chides, and Sherlock looks at her then.

“It was quite early. Isn’t it rude to announce one’s presence in the small hours of the morning?” he drawls.

“Oh rude! Since when do you care about being rude? It’s not like I was asleep anyway. Up all night pacing,” she says and straightens the tartan afghan slung over the back of Jane’s armchair with short angry tugs. “I have a hip, you know.”

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock snaps.

Mrs. Hudson huffs, her face pinching in indignation. She raises her finger possibly to give him a good scolding. “Listen here, young man,” (definitely a scolding,) “I know I’m nobody’s mother, but a simple tap on my door would have sufficed —”

Sherlock sits up, ignoring the pain in his ribs. “Mrs. Hudson.”

“— just to let me know. It’s the least you could have done after all I put up with —”

“Mrs. _Hudson,”_ Sherlock says again getting to his feet.

“— fingers in the crisper, holes in my walls, all the shouting and carrying on! Really!”

Sherlock clasps her upper arms to prevent her from manically pacing. (Because she does have a hip, after all.) “Mrs. Hudson. I apologise,” he says softly and (surprisingly) sincerely. “We were a bit…preoccupied.”

Mrs. Hudson stills and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her chestnut irises are bright with tears. “I don’t know what I would have done if you both…” her voice peters out, and she shakes her head a little. Sherlock pats her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Er…there, there, Mrs. Hudson. Can’t get rid of us that easily,” he says trying for levity. It works because she lets out a laugh and tugs his chin affectionately.

“Oh you!” she says. “I’ll just be downstairs if you need me. Shall I bring up dinner?”

“That’s not necessary,” Sherlock says ushering her towards the doors.

“All right. Just give us a shout. Be sure you eat something eventually. It’s getting late,” she says and makes her way back to her apartment.

Sherlock sighs and rubs the tension out of the back of his neck.

Christ. Everything was a mess, and he spent the whole day trying to figure out a way to fix it. He promised Jane he would, and there had to be a way to salvage the remains of the bond between them that he single-handedly obliterated. (The actual bomb was nothing compared to the way he viciously tore apart Jane’s deepest darkest secrets and dissected them ruthlessly to sate his own curiosity.)

The fact that he eviscerated her in the first place isn’t what’s vexing him, though. The act alone isn’t surprising in the slightest. He is a sociopath after all, and behaviour like this is rather typical of his caustic character. No, what is perplexing is that he recognises he’s _meant_ to be bothered at all. It signified a paradigm shift, given he normally wouldn’t have seen anything wrong with forsaking someone else’s feelings in order to cut to the quick of the facts. It was efficient; perfunctory, and the way he’s gone about things since before he could remember. 

Now, however, he felt an inexplicable urge to protect Jane and her feelings at all cost. Which was ironic because as far as he could conjecture feelings were, and continued to remain, utterly useless in all honesty. (He could attest to the fact himself.)

He lets the air drag itself out of his lungs even though his ribs spark with pain at the motion of his deflating chest. He makes his way back over the sofa to think.

* * *

Jane surfaces from sleep to the lengthening shadows of late afternoon and the sound of Mrs. Hudson nattering away downstairs. It’s a comforting feeling, the feeling of being home and safe in her own bed, and after dragging herself up to take some pain meds she has stashed in her bedside table, she manages to burrow under the bedclothes and slips back into a pleasant blankness. 

The peace doesn’t last for long, however, and before she has a chance to wake herself up, the terror wraps its dark tendrils around her and pulls her under, the remnants of her lucidity slipping away.

She can’t see, and a loud exploding mortar shakes her to the core. Ironically, the blast induces her vision instead of the other way around, and the world explodes into light and colour.

The Afghan sun is high against a cerulean swath of sky, and she squints up at it through the burning in her head.

The hot sand grits into her knees, and she brings a hand up to rest against her brow, shielding her from the harsh glare. Her forehead and palms are clammy and damp, and she scans the horizon.

 _“Bill!”_ she calls, and her voice strangely echoes back to her despite the utter wasteland of the desert she currently finds herself in. Her vision swims, and her eyes sting with sweat causing her to wipe her face. She needed to get up, she needed to find the road at least. Where did she leave him again?

She drags herself up and turns in a circle, searching for the outcrop of rock in the distance.

There is nothing but sand and sky for miles in every direction.

 _“Bill!”_ she shouts again, her voice getting lost on the wind. She tries walking, a lurching shambling pace, and that was definitely a mistake going by the wrenching pain in her shoulder and abdomen. She cries out and sinks to her hands and knees again. The sand in front of her turns red and thick like mud, and she realises in horror that it’s from the gouts of blood pouring out of her.

Her strength drains out of her and she watches as it seeps into the ground. She curls into a tight ball and clamps her eyes closed.

 _“Please God! Let me live!”_ she cries, and the sand beneath her starts to rise and swell until it turns to an ocean and her head slips under the waves.

She can’t breathe, and she kicks her legs as hard as she can to try and break the surface, salt and blood choking her, sliding thick down her throat. Just when she thinks she will never make it, she bursts into the open air.

 _Sherlock!_ Where was Sherlock?

 _Sherlock!_ Oh god the pool. Why was she in the pool?

 _Sherlock!_ She treads the deep water, whipping around.

 _“I’m soooo changeable!”_ comes the sickening sing-song voice of James Moriarty. It ricochets off the stark walls, the glissando scattering and confusing her of its origin.

_No!_

She knows what happens next, her eyes fastening onto the changing stall across from her. She tries to swim to the edge, tries to pull herself out of the churning water, but it feels as if she is moving through molasses.

A light flickers on at the far end of the pool, and Jane sees Sherlock and Moriarty squaring off, her gun in Sherlock’s hand and leveled at his face.

 _“Sherlock!”_ she yells, but they can’t hear her, and she can’t reach them.

The bomb explodes behind her, a silent percussion that she cannot hear, but the fire and heat tear into her regardless, and she is burning, burning, _burning_ a scream trapped despondently in her throat…

“Jane? Jane! _Wake up!”_

Her wrists are bound and held tight against her chest, strong arms restraining her from behind. The flood gates of her panic are thrown open wide, ripping her apart as her first thought is that she’s back in Moriarty’s clutches.

“No!” she shouts, and thrashes wildly against her captor. “No! Please god, no, no, no!”

A painful grunt resounds followed by a sharp hiss when her elbow comes in contact with ribs, the low familiar rumble echoing through her own body. 

She gasps going rigid, reality crashing down around her, and blinks rapidly to try and dispel the images of flickering pool water and unforgiving sun from her vision. Her room swims into focus. She is on the floor, her back against the far corner next to her wardrobe, the nightmare having propelled her off her bed at some point. She hasn’t experienced a night terror of this magnitude since waking up in the hospital all those months ago, and she feels her face burning in shame.

“Sherlock?” she says tremulously, hardly willing to breathe.

“It was just a dream, Jane. It’s all right,” Sherlock says against her. Her reserve snaps.

“No it’s not! It’s not okay, oh god, Sherlock!” she says through gritted teeth as the panic ignites her blood full force. Every nerve is alight with an intangible pain as her pulse pounds in her skull. “Let me go. _Let me up!”_

She struggles against him again, and he releases her. She scrambles upright as best as she can with her cast, nearly falling over again, but she gets her feet under her and hurries for the door.

“Jane!” Sherlock says, getting likewise to his feet. She doesn’t wait for him, and makes her way down the stairs, surprised that she didn’t go tumbling down them arse over end. When she reaches the landing, she stumbles into the wall for a moment before righting herself just as Sherlock descends the last few steps.

“God,” Jane moans putting her hand against the wall, the contents of her stomach or lack thereof, riling unpleasantly. She pinches her lips together breathing harshly out of her nose.

Sherlock only takes a second to assess her before slinging one of her arms over his shoulders and swiftly guiding her in the direction of the bathroom. They make it just in time for her to fall to her knees and retch pitifully over the toilet. There’s not much, but her stomach continues to spasm until she’s bringing up bile. Tentatively, Sherlock comes up behind her and holds back her hair.

It’s disturbingly cliché, and she huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sob. The gesture is uncharacteristically gentle of him, and it does more unpleasant things to her gut.

“I’m not going to break,” she rasps.

“I know,” he says, placing another hand on her back as she retches and spits one more time. She slumps over, resting her forehead atop her arm, and focusses on getting her heart to settle back down to a normal rate. After a moment, Sherlock kneels down beside her. “All right?”

“Yeah,” she says shakily. “It’s my fault. I should know better than to take narcotics. They always mess with me.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, and she turns to look at him. He’s staring at a spot over her shoulder, lost in thought, and Jane spots a mottled bruise beginning to bloom on his cheekbone.

“Shit. Did I do that?” Jane says reaching for him. He tries to brush her off.

“It’s nothing, Jane.”

“Sherlock, dammit, let me see,” Jane says gripping his chin and holding him steady. A sickening thread of guilt uncoils in her gut, and if her stomach wasn’t well and truly empty she would probably be sick again.

“I think your hand faired worse,” Sherlock says. She glances at her knuckles and notices some blood beginning to dry from when she broke open the scabs again. “You managed to hit the headboard pretty hard before I could get to you.”

Jane stares down at her hand, a thought occurring to her. “How did you even get in? My door was locked.”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock says getting to his feet. “Let’s just say Mrs. Hudson will be giving me an earful in the future.”

Jane shakes her head. “Did it ever occur to you that I locked my door to keep you out?”

“That’s generally the purpose of locking one’s door,” Sherlock says tersely. He walks over to the sink and fills a glass with water.

She takes it from him, irritation spiking through her.

“I see. So you aren’t oblivious to personal boundaries, you just choose not to observe them,” she snipes.

 _“Precisely,”_ Sherlock emphasises, his top lip curling back to reveal a hint of teeth in his disdain.

“Well isn’t that just the argument we’ve been having all along? What ever it takes to get your kicks, is that it?” she says bitterly, picking herself up to sit on the edge of the tub.

“Given what you know about me, and what I have repeatedly demonstrated to you in the past I can see how you would be led to believe that I would simply break into your room just to ‘get my kicks’ as you so eloquently put it, but I can assure you that was not the case,” Sherlock clips, his hackles raised. It gives her a perverse sort of pleasure backing _him_ into a corner for a change that she barks out a laugh.

“Come on. Don’t pretend this isn’t all one big game to you!” she goads. “People to take apart and put back together again. Experiments, puzzles of the human condition which you claim to be wholly sterilised of — which we both know is a crock of shit by the way — and then when you’re done; when they have been all but hollowed out and examined and thoroughly analysed, it’s off to the next intrigue!”

“That’s not —” Sherlock tries to say, bright patches of colour high on his cheeks.

“Bullshit it’s not!” she yells. She knows her wrath is somewhat misplaced, but she is in too much pain and much too shaken to care. She’s just so damn tired of keeping it in. _So, so tired._ “What happens after, hm? What happens when there’s nothing left of me and your god damned curiosity runs out?”

“Jane —” he says again, but she bolts to her feet and shoves him hard in the chest.

“What happens when this game between _us_ is over?”

 _“Don’t you get it?!”_ Sherlock finally explodes, grabbing her forcefully by the arms and giving her a sound shake. “It’s not about games and puzzles anymore, Jane! It stopped being a _fucking_ game the moment a bomb was strapped to you!”

Jane reels back for a second in shock, Sherlock’s words ringing out against the stark tiles of the bathroom like a hammer to an anvil. Sherlock hardly ever deigns to use such crass language, so that in of itself is enough to render her completely speechless.

The furious expression on his face suddenly melts to one of horror, and he abruptly releases her as if he was burned.

“Sherlock…” she says.

He flinches, even though her voice is soft and fragile. He retreats, banging out of the bathroom leaving her bereft and somewhat chilled by his absence. 

Guilt immediately crowds in as the anger begins to fade, and it gnaws at her already shredded stomach. Her words were reckless and harsh, said in the moment when all she could think about was hurting someone else. Which in retrospect, didn’t make her feel anything other than the stinging lance of the knowledge she was pushing away the only person she had left. God her past was like a poison, infecting everything it touched, and there was no containing it.

She scrubs a hand over her face, angrily swiping at the tears she didn’t realise were there, and limps to the sink. She gingerly washes the dried blood off her knuckles, hissing when she uses some of the antibacterial soap, the pain reminiscent of the barbs she had hurtled at Sherlock. Christ, what was wrong with her?

She soaks a flannel under the cold water from the tap and wrings it out.

With her heart tightening in her chest, she timidly hobbles out into the sitting room hoping that Sherlock didn’t already barricade himself in his room. It quickly becomes clear that he didn’t get very far at all, having all but dropped himself onto the sofa with his head buried in his hands. He doesn’t look up when she limps closer, and instead clutches at his hair like he does when he is particularly distressed. It makes her ache. 

“Sherlock?” she says, voice losing power at the end, her throat trashed from the shouting and crying and bitter acid.

He doesn’t say anything, so she sits on the edge next to him and gently pulls at his wrists until his releases his grip from his hair. He looks up at her as if in a daze, mouth twisting downward in misery.

“I couldn’t _not,_ Jane. I heard you and I – I couldn’t just sit there and listen.” His irises flash magnesium bright before skittering away, and she bites her lip.

“It was just a nightmare,” she says, tone unconvincing even to her own ears. The dream she had was frighteningly realistic; the sand, the heat, the blood, the water. In fact she fancies that if she were to concentrate hard enough, she could smell the scent of chlorine hovering still in her memory. She swallows hard and brings the cool cloth to the side of Sherlock’s face to try and soothe the slight swelling. He finally looks her in the eyes.

“You…you were shouting,” he says.

“Yeah. I do that,” Jane says giving a half-hearted grin.

“You were shouting _my name,_ Jane,” Sherlock says, his words weighted with stones. He brings her hand away from his cheek. “You’ve never done that before, but tonight you did. You were calling for me and I couldn’t get to you, so yes, I broke down your bloody door.”

“It’s not about the door, Sherlock,” she says looking down at their interwoven fingers.

“I made a mistake at the gallery. One more deduction than I was anticipating. Overstepped, as it were,” Sherlock posits hastily.

“No, it’s not that,” Jane says the truth of the matter finally swimming to the surface, now that she wasn’t finding someone else to blame for the hurt inside her. It was so clear now, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer. She takes a breath. “Well…yes what you did was a dick move, but it would have come out eventually.” She finds the courage to meet his gaze. 

“The real issue is me, Sherlock. I need to stop using you as a drug to anesthetise me from my past. Everything about you, the danger, the way you look at me…it’s a medication I’ve grown dependent on.” She licks her sore lips before pushing on. “And I think…the same goes for you.” Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off. “No, listen. I know what you said about needing and wanting, how they are the same, but they’re not, Sherlock. I want us to be together because of us not because of some warped addiction we have towards each other.”

“But I do want it!” Sherlock protests.

“How do you know?” Jane challenges.

“Jane…” he starts. “I am not a man prone to sentimental declarations. But I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that what we have is something no chemical can replicate. I should know. I’ve tried nearly all of them. They don’t last, none of them do. But this is different. From the moment I met you I knew it was different, and don’t pretend it wasn’t the same for you.” 

She sucks in a breath. He was right, she knew he was. From the moment they met they seemed to be falling into each other in a chaotic orbit. It made sense for them to be together. But she couldn’t shake that one question, sowing its seeds of doubt that had taken root in the back of her mind since she realised her feelings for Sherlock.

“How do you know it will be enough, though?” she croaks, heart trembling. It suddenly took an enormous effort to keep herself upright, and she slumps, shoulders sagging.

Sherlock purses his mouth into a thin line at this, Adam's apple bobbing as he visibly tries to come up with an answer. After a moment, he looks away and she closes her eyes, heart turning over painfully in her chest. 

She’s about to get up and make her way back to her room, when a gentle hand circles around her wrist. She looks at him and reads the uncertainty in the creases around his eyes and she pleads silently with him. For what, she doesn’t know, but it doesn’t seem to matter because in the next moment, Sherlock is drawing her into a careful embrace and reclining to where they are both curled together on the sofa.

The silence enfolds them in a quiet shroud, and they breathe together, synced in everything, even this. Sherlock traces little patterns on the crest of her shoulder with his fingers, and she counts the steady beats of his heart thrumming against her.

“I’m going to my sister’s tomorrow,” Jane says sometime later, breaking the respite.

Sherlock tenses behind her. “For how long?” he asks woodenly.

“I don’t know,” she says. He goes to pull his hand away, but she catches it and wraps it over her chest. He’s still stiff at first, but gradually relaxes until they are melded into each other.

“Okay,” he breathes into her hair at last, and she presses her lips against the tops of his knuckles, relief unfurling within her and thawing her anguished bones.

Neither of them sleep, afraid of missing the sunrise as if by doing so, they would lose the other to the dawn.


	2. Ambivalence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearts are torn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Sorry this has taken me a little bit. Been super busy! This one is short but packed with a lot of stuff, so hopefully that makes up for it. The next chapter should be longer. When writing this I was listening to [Say Something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVgixOjGhVU) by Great Big World, and I must say it is so perfect for what's happening between Jane and Sherlock. I recommend listening to it because you all know me and how much I love music. Ha. Okay. Love you all!
> 
> xxHoney

* * *

Sherlock sits at his microscope, pretending not to notice the battered green suitcase sitting by the front door. He adjusts the fine focus, and can feel the object of his hatred mocking him from across the room. He grits his teeth, eyes flashing upwards as the threads of Jane’s voice can be heard through the ceiling. She’s on the phone with her sister discussing the train schedule.

It’s horribly, horribly unfair. Especially when he tried _so hard_ to prevent this exact thing from happening. (Which he should get some credit for all things considering.) He sniffs and straightens his spine when he hears her lopsided tread descending the stairs. He pretends once again, nonchalantly peering into the eyepieces, his brow furrowing so hard he’s giving himself a headache, but he won’t let on the fact. In his peripheral he sees her drape her jacket over the suitcase. She heaves a sigh and makes her way into the kitchen. He can feel her gaze lingering over him as she hovers between the kitchen and the sitting room, and he doesn’t acknowledge her even though every fibre of his being is attuned to her presence. He pleads silently that she suddenly informs him she’s changed her mind and is going to unpack, but his hope is dashed when she flicks on the electric kettle with an air of grim determination.

“So that’s it, then?” Sherlock says after a few minutes, shaking Jane from her stoic reverie.

She clears her throat and idly steeps her cup of tea. 

“Yes. Cab will be here in a few minutes.”

“Mm.”

A thick silence falls over them. Sherlock doesn’t even know what he’s looking at through the scope anymore. He just grabbed one of his old slides with a dubious smear of what might be beetroot in a bid to distract himself. Instead, Sherlock is acutely aware of the traffic outside and the steady drip of water in the sink. Just when he thinks he can’t stand it any more, he looks up at the same time Jane opens her mouth to speak.

Before either of them gets a chance to say anything, the dull buzz of her mobile chatters on the worktop behind her, breaking the spell.

“That’ll be them, then,” she says, not bothering to answer the phone.

“Right. Best get going,” Sherlock says, lowering his gaze and jotting down some nonsensical formula on the scrap piece of paper in front of him. The quadratic equation really has no relevance to what he’s working on, but it was the first thing that popped into his mind, and he clings to the familiar arithmetic as Jane sighs and gathers her things.

“I’ll…” she says, and he tilts his head in her direction, unable to meet her eyes. He waits, but she doesn’t say anything else, and after a moment Sherlock hears the sound of the street door closing followed by the rumble of the cab.

He lets out a breath, inhaling the second the air is out of his lungs as if he were holding his breath the whole time. Maybe he was, because a bright spot appears before him, and his head feels light.

If he thought it was quiet before, the silence in Jane’s absence is crushing.

He sucks in another breath, and then another, vaguely aware that he might be hyperventilating.

Jane was gone. She left. Just now, and what did he bloody do? Absolutely _fucking_ nothing. He just bloody sat there as she walked out the door. Who knows if she’s even coming back? And what’s worse is he didn’t say anything. What could he say? Was there even anything that could keep her? She was his to keep, he felt the veracity of this within his very marrow. It was like everything within him knew he was waiting for something grand, balanced on the razor edge of all of this potential. He knew he was built for great things, but never in a million years did he think it was to be found in another person. She brought everything into focus, and in her absence he suddenly realises how achingly alone he’s been all this time.

His palms sweat, and his heart hammers, and the roiling in his gut isn’t unlike withdrawal. He leaps to his feet, knocking over some test tubes and a beaker in the process, a base solution spilling over the table and onto the floor. He can hardly be arsed to care. Perhaps if he ran fast enough he could catch up with her cab.

Without another second of hesitation, he bangs out of the flat, his shoes pounding hard on the pavement as he takes off in the direction the taxi went on its way to the station. He pulls out his mental map of London’s streets, and banks left, nearly taking out a person on a bicycle, and forces himself to run faster. His thighs burn, and his breath comes harsh and ragged, but he doesn’t let up even for a second.

He’s in the middle of calculating the quickest shortcut through a nondescript alley with the probability of Jane’s taxi being stalled by at least three different traffic lights, when the very thing he was after races by him headed back to Baker Street. He does a double take, the flash of Jane’s pale and bewildered face through the window burning into him, and he grinds to a halt just as the cab pulls over.

He gasps for air, his lungs seizing, the break lights of the cab glaring at him through the blur of his sweaty lashes.

The door pops open a second later, and Jane awkwardly gets out with her cast, cane forgotten. She's about as wild-eyed as he feels, and after a tense beat where they can do nothing but stare at each other, she lurches forward trying to run.

It’s enough incentive for him and he follows suit, desperately lessening the distance between them tender and swollen like a bruise. They collide in a frantic tangle of arms, and Sherlock crushes Jane to him, ignoring the creaking of his battered ribs as she clings to him. It doesn’t hurt half as bad as the thought of her leaving for good, and he holds her even tighter, breathing in the all-familiar scent of lemon, roses, and apple blossom.

“What are you doing here?” she says into his chest, trembling.

“I could ask you the same thing.” She pulls away from him at this and looks into his face, the edges of panic fading slightly.

“ _God,_ Sherlock,” she nearly sobs, and then her lips are on his, practically devouring him. She runs her hands through his tangled hair and grips hard. He bares his teeth when she tugs and a feeling of satisfaction blooms in his gut. He dives in with abandon, nipping her lips, and licking into her hot mouth tasting tea and peppermint toothpaste. His hand comes up to her face, and he feels the wetness of her tears, and he dips his head into the lee of her shoulder, pressing his trembling lips to the flutter of her pulse. “I didn’t want to leave like that. Without -- without saying --”

“Shh, Jane. I know,” Sherlock says drawing back so he could assess her. Her bright eyes brim with tears causing a supernova to implode in his chest.

“We need to be better for each other. You get that right?” she asks him desperately. He scowls, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I know,” he says, angrily conceding the truth.

She reaches up and clasps his wrist where his hand is still cradling her face. She rests her forehead against his jaw, shuddering.

“I _am_ coming back. Don't you doubt me, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you dare doubt me. Not when I already doubt myself."

“Don’t go,” Sherlock blurts, shards of glass filling his chest. “We’ll fix this another way.”

She gives him a watery smile, and leans in slowly. She shakes her head and kisses the base of his throat. He shivers and gathers her even closer in the early spring air, burying his nose in the soft crown of her head.

“I need to be a whole person for you,” she says against his skin.

He inhales sharply, his mouth tasting bitter and ferrous. (It wasn’t bloody fair.) He wants to argue, demand she stop this foolishness this instant. 

He looks down into her pleading expression armed with half a dozen possible solutions, but his protests dry up in his mouth as the potency of her grief strikes him. She needed to find…what ever it was she needed to find, and he couldn’t stop her from doing that. So instead, he swallows back his words and feigns a small smile.

“But who will make my tea?” he asks, and a weak laugh falls from Jane’s lips. She kisses him again, and Sherlock tastes the salt from her tears.

“Lazy git,” she whispers fondly, breath hitching. Sherlock gives her another crushing embrace, wanting to imprint her shape into his very own flesh as if by doing so he would have something tangible with him always.

The cabbie honks the horn, causing Jane to start. She looks over her shoulder at the taxi, and swipes a tear away from her cheek.

“I’ll let you know when I make it back to Weybridge,” Jane says taking a careful step away from him.

“All right,” Sherlock says, irritated that his voice shakes ever so subtly. He crams his hands into his pockets to prevent him from grabbing onto her again, not sure if he will be able to let go a second time. He’s only in his suit jacket, and the sudden absence of Jane’s body leaves him feeling cold in more ways than one. He walks her back to the cab and opens the door for her. She lingers for a moment, running her fingers through the hair at his temple one last time. He can’t help but close his eyes and lean into the touch even though it’s rather cruel of her.

“I’m coming back,” she says again, and he nods. She gets in, and he shuts the door after her. She mouths something, but he isn’t quick enough to catch it, too preoccupied by her palm pressing against the window. He hesitates, but finally reaches out with his own hand to bridge the connection through the glass, but just before his finger tips join hers, the taxi is already pulling away.

His arm falls back to his side, and his clenches his fist. His hands feel like corpses attached to the ends of his wrists, purposeless and devoid of warmth. He tucks them back in his pockets so he won’t have to look at them.

The taxi rounds the corner, leaving his sight.

He stands rooted to the spot until the wind picks up, and it beings to drizzle. 

With heavy strides and lead in his stomach, Sherlock takes the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading this again to myself I just realised that [Let Her Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26SDD60m_kY) is another song that fits well with this.


	3. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The space between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Sorry. Gah so sorry this took forever to update! Yay life! ugh. Okay so I know I was planning on there only being three chapters, but guess what...there's actually four to this one. Yeah that's what happens when I try to plan. Oy. So to make up for the delay and the short-ish chapter last time, this one is a bit long, and the next one should be up really really soon, I promise. You are are wonderful and I love the feedback. 
> 
> xxHoney.

* * *

“This is nice,” Jane remarks banally, setting her suitcase in the small foyer of her sister’s trendy flat. It's empty and cold with clean lines and generic art on the walls, but at least she's out of the house Clara and her used to live in. It smells light and airy as well; a good change form the stale stench of alcohol and depression that hovered around Harry since the divorce.

"Don't lie. Its shit," Harry scoffs running a hand through her short blonde hair. She had it cut recently, giving her a clean look accentuating her lovely bone structure and taking some of the shadows out from under her eyes.

"No it's not!" Jane defends. "It's wizard," she says using the banter from their childhood in order to dispel some of the awkward tension that had cropped up ever since the car ride.

It has the desired effect when her sister's mouth quirks in a familiar almost-smile.

"Bull. I can always tell when you're fibbing. But I don't blame you. This place is nothing like me."

"I did wonder about that giant moth sculpture, but I didn't want to sound like an uncultured naff."

Harry cocks her head and observes said sculpture on the small sideboard before breaking out in a genuine laugh.

"Oh god. It is a bit pretentious, innit?"

"Just a little."

"Come on. Leave your shit; we're going to the pub."

And Jane is too relieved to argue.

***

“So tell me about this bloke you’ve been living with all this time,” Harry says taking a sip of her rum and coke, deciding to jump right in.

“There’s not much to tell,” Jane says, averting her eyes. She traces her finger through the water rings on the table.

“Don’t give me that, Janey,” Harry says. “Why of _course_ he’s the reason you came back to Surrey.”

“He’s not!” Jane retorts. Harry snorts through her nose, giving her a disbelieving look. She touches her tongue to her top lip and clasps her hands in front of her, tilting her head and giving her a narrow look. Jane rolls her eyes as she is given the big sister ‘once over.’

“I’ve read your blog, Jane,” she says pointedly.

“So have loads of other people,” Jane mumbles, her cheeks heating. If she ever thought it was hard hiding something from Sherlock, she would only have to remember her sister’s penetrating gaze.

“You are a terrible liar,” Harry says, laughing a little and sipping once more from her drink. “Have you actually read back what you wrote?”

“Well, yes I’ve read —”

“Out loud?”

“Don’t be ridicu —”

“In front of a mirror?”

“Fuck off,” Jane says, through a burgeoning grin. “You’re an arse.”

“Oh, I try to be,” Harry sighs as if she’s terribly put-upon. “No, but seriously. Anyone with a brain can see what this Sherlock Holmes does to you. He gives you something no one else can,” she says, the last dropping off with a modicum of hurt that she hastily tries to cover with taking another drink. 

Jane doesn’t really know what to say to that. Part of her wants to be defensive, and she raises her chin combatively, but the other part of her knows that if she does she will only be affirming Harry’s suspicions. Before she can thoroughly stick her foot in her mouth either way, Harry pipes up with:

“So have you shagged him yet?” causing Jane to nearly spit her own drink out of her mouth.

“Harry! God, no. We’re just…we…” she flounders, eyes skittering back and away.

“Oh my god,” Harry says, tone full of revelation. “I didn’t think — oh but it makes so much _sense_ now, of course!”

“Stoppit,” Jane warns, spine stiffening.

“You do! Holy shit, you’re in _love_ with the man!” Harry needles. Jane downs her drink clearly avoiding the question, and her sister crows as if this were a blatant confirmation of the fact.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she says.

“Sod that, I do!” Harry says and motions for the barkeep to bring them another round. “Why haven’t you shagged him, then? You’re not a prude, that much I know. Is he gay? Oh no, he’s gay isn’t he?”

“No he’s not gay, will you shut it?” Jane says tiredly.

“Then for chrissakes, why are you here?” Harry says, exasperated.

Jane looks away, the feeling of emptiness and the renewed rawness of her loss bubbling to the surface. Her breath hitches, and her heart hammers, and with the barest touch she presses a palm to her abdomen as if she could physically feel how vacuous she is.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it, Harry, so leave it,” Jane bites.

Stung, Harry snaps her mouth closed and sniffs. “Fine.”

Jane glares down at the table, nodding sharply and taking a large swallow of her drink. It tastes sour, so she pushes it away from her.

“You know what? No, it’s not fine,” Harry says, the two shots, a lager, and her rum and coke beginning to take its effect. Her eyes shine with indignation, and her voice cracks with emotion. “You can’t just shut people out all the time. I mean, I gave you my phone to keep in touch, but it’s like pulling teeth to get you to answer back.”

“I’ve been busy,” Jane says.

“I’ve barely seen you since Christmas! And mum —”

“Oh no. Don’t bring her into this.”

“Have you even called her?”

“You’re joking, right?” Jane snorts. “Harry, she kicked me out on Christmas Eve because I happened to be defending _you,_ in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Don’t pretend like you’re the martyr here. You can’t just hide your pettiness behind your oppressed lesbian sister all the time.”

“Pettiness? What are you on about?” Jane says, hackles rising.

“You’re really just pissed about that quilt,” Harry says. Jane gives her an affronted look.

“That’s not — that has nothing to do with —” she sputters, and Harry scoffs.

“Oh yes it does,” Harry guffaws. “It has everything to do with it. Jesus, you’re so hotheaded. But I supposed you get that from her. Stubborn arses, the both of you,” Harry says, the alcohol loosening her inhibitions. “Besides, what do you care if she gave that quilt to cousin Lacey, anyhow? She’s the one with scads of kids. She’s had her third by the way. A boy apparently. Named Joey or Jason or something with a J.” She waves her hand dismissively. Jane balls her left hand into a fist even though her bruised knuckles throb with pain. “It’s not like you’re ever having kids, anyway.”

An icy spike lodges itself in her gut, and she straightens her spine. “Right,” she says, and drains her glass. She pulls out her wallet and throws some notes onto the table to cover her tab.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re leaving! There’s no need to get tetchy. It’s just a dusty old blanket. Meant to be passed along the generations anyway; given to daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters’ daughters et cetera —”

Jane slams her fist onto the table, cutting her sister off. “It’s not about the _damn quilt!”_ she says, her voice growing in volume until she was practically shouting. A few people look their way, but Jane is beyond caring. She snatches the keys off the table with one hand while clutching her cane with the other. “I’m taking the Pinto back. You can get a cab,” Jane says, marching out of the pub, and locating Harry’s car parked just around the corner.

Her heart pounds, equal parts enraged and anxiety ridden, and she gets in the car and drives back to the flat. 

She immediately feels guilty when she gets inside the dark apartment, worried about leaving Harry to her own devices. _At least I took the car,_ she thinks to herself, and another lash of guilt coils about her at her lack of faith. Harry assured her she was getting better, and she owed it to her to at least attempt to believe it.

She shakes her head, shoulders slumping and flicks on the light in the foyer. She gathers her things from the floor and deposits them in the guest room, and turns on a pot of coffee.

She’s on her second cup, and sitting on the suede sofa when her sister lets herself in. She clears her throat contritely, and Jane looks up somewhat relieved to see her looking a little more sober.

“I made coffee,” Jane supplies into the awkward silence. Harry nods, tension ebbing slightly.

“Is it good?” she asks and makes herself a cup. “I’ve switched brands.”

“It’s all right,” Jane shrugs, holding the warm mug between her palms. She wants to go home already, back to their funny little flat with its awful wallpaper and test tubes on the kitchen table — and it’s sad really because she just got here and all she can think about is Sherlock, what he’s doing, if he’s getting sleep, if he staying out of trouble. The ache in her chest is gnarled and potent, threatening to steal her breath on ever other exhalation. So wrapped up is she, that she doesn’t notice Harry sitting next to her until a furtive hand rests on her knee.

Startled, Jane looks at her and Harry looks pointedly down at her cast with a dark expression.

“What _happened,_ Janey?” She goes to open her mouth, but Harry cuts her off with a sharp gesture. “And don’t tell me that bollocks about you falling down the stairs again, because I know that’s a goddam lie.”

Jane sighs. “I really can’t tell you due to…legal issues,” she says haltingly. Lestrade had warned them both on the importance of discretion while the clusterfuck of Moriarty’s ‘little game’ was being handled.

“You have to tell me something,” Harry whispers, her eyes although not as sharp with the remnants of alcohol still present, scan her with a wisdom that only comes with being her older sister.

Years of their childhood flash before Jane; moments of being afraid in the dark and seeking out her bigger sister in the middle of the night; of Harry pushing Donnie Parker in the mud for ripping up her dress coming home from school; Harry taking the smack across the face from their mother when in fact it was Jane who had broken the screen door. And then the more unpleasant memories when their dynamic began to shift; Harry coming out to the disdain of their parents; Harry sneaking off; quitting school; falling into debt by gambling and refusing to take money from Jane; phone calls at all hours asking for a ride after getting beaten and left in an alley; the countless whispered, _‘Don’t tell mum and dad, okay?’_ Periods of her simply dropping off the face of the earth, and their mother begging Jane to track her down. Harry showing up at her dorm in Uni on more than one occasion utterly pissed.

And then the sharp pain of their father’s sudden death and their respective spirals. Jane, furling in on herself, and Harry destroying everything in her path.

Harry incensed, and hating their mother, and Jane trying to hold them all together at the funeral because, _goddammit_ who else was going to keep their family in tact?

But it had been hard, so hard, and Harry was never present, and their mum had so many expectations, and she just wanted all of it off her bleeding shoulders for a change.

It’s how she feels right now, and as much as she wanted to erect those walls and simply shrug off her sister’s concern like she has before, something in her concerned gaze prevents her from doing so.

Instead, she inhales shakily, tears prickling her eyes.

“It’s not about the quilt, Harry,” she breathes, the air tattered and heavy in her chest, and so, so vast with things unsaid.

Harry frowns, searching her face for a moment before the realisation dawns, and her tawny eyes grow wide. Her mouth drops open slightly, and a soft _‘oh’_ falls from her lips, and before Jane knows she’s being gathered in a strong embrace.

“Oh, honey. Oh, Jane,” she murmurs into her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me? You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

She closes her eyes, refusing to cry, a weight sliding off her as she lets herself be held by her older sister for the first time in years.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there on the couch, but after a while Harry takes a tentative breath. Jane moves back a little, tilting her head in an unsaid grant of permission.

Harry bites her lip before voicing her obvious concern.

“I know…this sort of thing didn’t go over so well for you last time, but have you considered talking to someone? A professional, I mean.”

Jane gives a rueful smile remembering her last attempt at therapy. And how the pretentious bastard tried to take advantage of her. That ended quite badly — Bit Not Good indeed. Not for her, of course. She wasn’t the one who walked away with the broken arm. 

She licks her dry lips, however. Harry’s face was open and honest; a pleading type of look. She wanted to help — looked desperate to. 

“I’ve not out ruled all of my options. In fact, it’s something I’ve thought about going back to recently,” she admits.

“I know someone you can talk to. She was my therapist after me and Clara…” she falters, shaking off the weary memories, and smiles a little. “It was really good for me.”

“Oh? Are you still seeing her?” Jane asks. Harry’s smile turns into a little grin.

“Not professionally. Conflict of interest.”

Jane laughs at this, shaking her head. “Naturally.”

“Her name is Dr. Thompson. Will you go?” Harry asks, eyes bright.

“What, tomorrow?” Jane says, a little startled.

“You’re not doing anything else, so what’s the problem?” she says arching a challenging eyebrow.

Jane stubbornly holds her gaze before capitulating. “Fine,” she huffs, but can’t help the soft smile the blooms on her face when Harry beams at her.

“Good.”

***

Dr. Thompson is a tall, slender woman with skin the colour of mocha and a beguiling smile, and the first thing she says, is _‘fuck it, it’s too nice to sit in my office, lets go to a café,’_ and Jane likes her immediately.

“I’m not a very conventional therapist,” she says, licking some foam off her thumb from her latte. “So I apologise in advance.”

“Not at all. I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment, Dr. Thompson.”

“Call me Bella. Dr. Thompson is my father.” Jane lilts her eyebrows in polite interest, and Bella smirks knowingly. “I know, I know. I followed my father into his profession. I’m sure Freud would have loads to say on that.”

“Well I wouldn’t trust you if there obviously wasn’t something off-kilter about you,” she says good-naturedly, feeling more at ease than she’s ever been around a shrink before.

“Oh? You think I’m barmy, is that it?”

“You’re dating my sister, so yeah.”

“Touché!” Bella laughs, and takes another sip. She sets down her drink, and her brown eyes sweep over Jane. For the first time, she feels as if she’s being properly analysed, and she can’t help but shift nervously in her seat. Bella notices, and she gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry. No, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: ‘This is the part where she tries to psychoanalyse me just like every other two-bit therapist. Well I’m not going to do that. Nope.”

“You’re not?” Jane blinks in surprise.

Bella shakes her head sagely. “No. Instead…you are going to tell me all about this blog I keep hearing about,” she says with a bright smile.

* * *

“No, no, _no!_ He’s not the boy’s father!” Sherlock yells at the television, flinging out a hand in indignation. “Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!”

“What the hell are you watching?” Lestrade asks from the doorway, causing Sherlock to start. He didn’t even hear the door, and with a grimace he remembers why this is.

“You know I could change the locks, and then your little key would be useless,” he snipes, wrapping his coat tighter about himself. He never took it off when he came inside, and now he’s glad as it is currently acting as some type of battle armour. He clasps his hands around his knees, and doesn’t deign to look in Lestrade’s direction.

“Yeah you could, but you know Hudders would just give me another one,” Lestrade says coming further into the flat.

“Don’t call her that; she doesn’t like it,” Sherlock sniffs.

“Yes she does. It’s my nickname for her. Just like she calls me Greggy,” Lestrade says. He drops into the chair across from him (Jane’s chair) with caviler grace, resting an ankle atop his knee as if he belonged there. It was vastly irritating. He observes the telly over his shoulder for a moment. “I didn’t know you were into crap telly.”

“Passes the time,” Sherlock says shortly. “The Connie Prince case,” he says by means of explanation.

“Right,” Lestrade says, smugly amused.

“What do you want? If it’s a case, I’ve told you I’m not taking any right now.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns up the volume. Lestrade ignores this and simply talks louder. “You can’t just mope about the flat until Jane gets back. I mean, for chrissakes, it’s been three weeks.”

“I’m not moping,” Sherlock says trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

“You’re practically in mourning.”

“Please.”

“Look at you, all shroud-like.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s really not.”

“I might go back out later,” Sherlock argues, voice taking on a petulant edge.

“Sure,” Lestrade drawls.

“ _What_ are you doing here?” he snaps.

“Me? Oh nothing. Might make some tea later.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Mycroft sent you.” (Of course he bloody did, the meddling bastard.)

“Maybe I just missed arguing with you,” Lestrade says. He picks up an old copy of the Sun and begins reading.

“Don’t lie. It’s that stupid…code thing you both have. As if by getting you to check up on me isn’t a dead give away that he’s been spying on me through the CCTV again.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lestrade says, eyes skimming the sports section, no doubt.

Sherlock scoffs at this. “Please. ‘Danger Night’ is hardly covert. It’s overblown and dramatic just like Mycroft.”

“Fair enough,” Lestrade says, not bothering to look up from the paper.

“So you admit it?” Sherlock says, eyes snapping to him.

Lestrade lowers the paper. “Will you just shut up and watch your telly so we can both go on pretending you actually don’t need my company?”

“I _don’t_ need your company,” Sherlock grumbles, hunching further into his coat. He picks up the remote and flicks through the channels at a pace designed more to annoy Lestrade than to pick something to watch, and he smirks when he notices it’s working when a muscle in the other man’s jaw tics, a tell of his irritation. He turns up the volume on some foreign channel.

Lestrade gives a disgruntled sigh. “You know, Jane’s updated her blog. Have you checked it out yet?”

Sherlock pauses for a second, his thumb over the channel button, his breath catching. (What? How was he not aware of this? Impossible.) The corner of Lestrade’s mouth tilts up in a grin, but he steadfastly keeps his eyes on the paper. Sherlock glares at him, and ignoring his minute chuckle, he whips out his laptop sitting wedged in between his thigh and the armrest.

He pulls up Jane’s blog immediately and notices she’s been busy in the past few weeks. He clicks on the one titled _‘The Blind Banker’,_ eyes skimming over the events of the Chinese smuggling ring, snorting derisively.

“What a terrible title!” Sherlock says.

“Mmhm.”

“God, she makes it sound so romanticised. ‘And then we ran here!’ ‘And then we did this!’ ‘And then there was a mysterious code!’ Rubbish.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade flips a page.

“Where’s the _analysis?_ The break down of how I knew where to go, and who was behind it all. Good grief she makes me sound like a character in a children’s story.”

Lestrade sighs.

“My ‘adventures’. Ridiculous,” Sherlock huffs. He goes quiet, reading it again, and then a third time. He’s so absorbed in the words that he doesn’t notice Lestrade looking at him from over the top of the paper. “She uses the exclamation point an appalling number of times for her rhetoric to be taken seriously.”

“It’s okay, you know,” Lestrade finally says.

“What?”

“To admit that you miss her. I won’t tell anybody.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes shutting the laptop. “I’m leaving. I’m sure you can show yourself out,” he says curtly, and makes it to the door before Lestrade can protest. He could honestly care less if the man follows or not.

When he gets out onto the pavement, he wraps his coat firmly about himself, breath misting faintly under the streetlights. He makes sure to flip off the security camera for good measure before setting off in an aimless direction for the second time that evening.

He doesn’t know where he’s going; he just knows he can’t stand sitting in the flat with the knowledge that something is missing no matter how he tries to distract himself. It’s there in the empty chair sitting across from his; in the unused mugs and cutlery; in the oppressive silence that comes in the form of Jane’s absence. It’s utterly maddening. How did he ever manage to live alone for so long without going out of his mind, left like he is to his own devices? For god’s sake he actually counted the tiles on the kitchen wall just to blot out the infernal ticking of the clock on the mantle. (There are three hundred and forty seven.) In the end it was just easier to get rid of the clock, and the sheer simplicity of this solution mocked him for not having thought of it sooner. His brain was cannabalising itself, but at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to accept any cases.

The knowledge that Moriarty was out there somewhere waiting for god knows what, causes his heart rate to pick up slightly.

He wasn’t afraid, of course he wasn’t.

He just felt…ill-footed when it came to Moriarty’s manic unpredictability. And with Jane so far away…

He balls his fists up tightly within his pockets, and turns into Regent’s Park.

Coming to his favourite park bench, Sherlock sits and pulls out his mobile. He stares at the blank screen for a moment before opening the most recent text interface.

_Jane Watson — 7:02 AM Apr. 23_  
_good morning._

_Jane Watson — 10:30 AM Apr. 24_  
_morning. harry’s out, and I am incredibly bored._

_Jane Watson — 7:24 AM Apr. 25_  
_watched a documentary on bees. thought you’d be interested._

_Jane Watson — 11:48 PM Apr. 25_  
_good night, sherlock._

_Jane Watson — 8:15 AM Apr. 26_  
_morning._

_Jane Watson — 8:21 AM Apr. 27_  
_having toast this morning, which reminds me you need to get us a new toaster._

And they went on like that, a least one text a day, for the past three weeks she’s been gone. (Three weeks, four days, and fifteen hours.) He couldn’t even describe the relief he had felt when the first one came in, and even though he couldn’t find the wherewithal to respond to any of them, he clung to her daily texts like air.

He’s just in the middle of scrolling through them all again, when his phone buzzes in his hand, a new message from her popping up. He jumps to the bottom of the thread.

_Jane Watson — 11:36 PM_  
_good night, sherlock._

It was simple, just like it always was, however it causes Sherlock’s heart to somersault in his chest.

The distance between them, it was unsettling, almost a tangible sensation making his palms itch and the back of his neck sweat. There had to be a way of lessening this absurd torture his transport insisted on inflicting on him in lieu of Jane’s presence.

Even as he was attempting to think of a way around this problem for what had to be the thousandth time, his subconscious made his mind up for him, and before he knew it, the mechanical blare was ringing in his ear as he dialed Jane on autopilot.

She picks up on the second ring.

_“Sherlock?”_

Her voice, though distorted and tinny, is like a balm to his fractious mind, and he drags the crisp air through his nose in a deep cleansing breath.

 _“Sherlock?”_ she says again, voice tight and worried. _“What is it? What’s wrong?”_

“Nothing I’m —” he cuts himself off not sure what really to say.

_“You never call.”_

“Well, obviously not never,” Sherlock responds, but the comment is lacking its usual asperity. The awkward silence reigns between them, and Sherlock curses inwardly. (This is why he prefers to text.)

_“So…”_

“Jane —”

They both stop again, and Jane huffs a small laugh.

 _“Everything’s okay then?”_ she says tentatively.

(No.)

“Yes. I just called to say…” _when are you coming home?_ He takes a deep breath pinching the bridge of his nose, “goodnight.”

There is a beat of silence on the other end, and Sherlock can hear her holding back a sigh. It is painful, the aeons stretching between them, but at last Jane says, _“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

It is a long while before either of them rings off, content to listen to the other breathe, and for the first time in this long estrangement, Sherlock finds something akin to solace.


	4. Armistice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tentative bridge built through phone conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! As promised you didn't have to wait too long! Yay for the end of this installment! So this chapter I've wanted to try the new dialogue style, so hopefully it's not too confusing. Hopefully you guys like it, I had fun writing it. I love you all and be on the look out for the redeux of ASiB!

* * *

_“Hello?”_

_“…Goodnight, Jane.”_

_“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Hello?”_

Silence.

_“Sherlock?”_

Hesitant.  
 _“Goodnight…Jane.”_

_“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Surprised.  
 _“Jane?”_

_“Hello.”_

_“You called me.”_

_“I did.”_  
Proud. Warm.

_“I…oh.”_

_“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

_“…Goodnight, Jane.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Sherlock?”_

_“…Hello, Jane.”_

_“You haven’t called in a while.”_

_“I’ve been busy.”_

_“Oh. With a case?”_

_“…No.”_

_“Sherlock…”_

Silence.

_“Why aren’t you taking cases?”_

_“I don’t have time for any of them.”_

_“Well that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”_

Uncertain.  
 _“I’m not —”_  
Halting.

_“What?”_

Silence.

_“What is it, Sherlock?”_

Reaching, searching, grasping.  
 _“I…goodnight, Jane.”_  
Changing tack.

Silence.

A sigh.  
 _“…Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Worried.  
 _“Sherlock?”_

_“Jane.”_

_“Everything all right?”_

_“Of course it is; why do you always ask me that?”_

_“I guess I’m still getting used to you calling me.”_

_“I’ve been calling you for weeks, now.”_

_“Yeah but this is the first time you’ve called me in the middle of the day. So you can see why I might be puzzled.”_

Fumbling. Deep breath.  
 _“Right. Well. I just called to, er, to…um…”_

_“Yes?”_

_“I bought a new toaster. For the flat.”_

_“Oh, you did?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well thank —”_

_“Goodbye, Jane.”_

— —

Rueful.  
 _“Bye, I guess.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Groggy. Clears throat.  
 _“Hel — hello?”_

_“Hello, Jane.”_

_“Sherlock? It’s three in the morning.”_

_“I know. Sorry.”_

_“What do you want?”_

_“I forgot to say goodnight.”_

Sleep addled. Swallowing.  
 _“You…you forgot to say…”_

Impatient.  
 _“Goodnight, yes Jane, keep up.”_

_“Sorry, but you did just wake me up at three.”_

_“Yes.”_

Irate.  
 _“Three in the morning, Sherlock!”_

Meek.  
 _“…Goodnight, Jane.”_  
A grin.

_“You’re impossible.”_

A beat.

_“Jane.”_

_“What?”_

_“You have to say it, Jane.”_

Rumpled. Fond.  
 _“Augh. Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Hello?”_

_“Ah, Jane. I found out how to chemically disincorporate human flesh by using —”_

_“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock I’m having lunch!”_

_“I don’t see how that’s relevant to my experiment —”_

_“No. It’s not. Just…hold on.”_

_{The sound of bare feet on wood. The squeak of a hinge.}_

_“What are you —?”_

Disenchanted.  
 _“Just wait. I was eating a ham sandwich, and I have to throw it away now.”_

_“As I was saying…”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Hi, Sherlock.”_

_“Jane. You’ll be pleased to know I replaced the electric kettle.”_

_“You…did?”_

_“Yes. Mrs. Hudson was happy to get her old one back.”_

Sceptical.  
 _“Uh huh.”_

_“Yep.”_

_“Sherlock. What is all this?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“First the toaster and now the kettle.”_

_“And? If I recall you’re the one who has been hounding me about them.”_

_“Yeah, I know it’s just —”_

Wary.  
 _“Just…what?”_

_“Why aren’t you taking cases, Sherlock?”_

_“There aren’t any good ones.”_

_“Have you been getting the ones I’ve sent you?”_

Sublimely disinterested.  
 _“Ugh. The ones from…?”_

_“From my blog, yes. You’ve got a fan base.”_

_“Don’t remind me.”_

_“What about the one with the dog? That sounded interesting.”_

_“Please. That’s a two, at most.”_

Realisation.  
 _“A…two? What’s that some type of scale?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You invented a scale?”_  
Snickering.

_“Ye – I don’t see what’s so funny.”_

_“Of course you would invent a scale.”_

Defensive.  
 _“I find this repetition dull and entirely irrelevant.”_

_“Is it out of ten?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Ten being…?”_

_“Triple homicide locked room murder on a cruise ship.”_

Amused.  
 _“Specific. And a One being…?”_

_“The ongoing mystery of whether or not Anderson brushed his teeth that morning.”_

_“Gross.”_

_“It happens more often than you’d think.”_

_“Yeah. Didn’t need to know that.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annoyed.  
 _“Yes?”_

_“What about the woman with the missing broach?”_

_“Please.”_

_“Come on. That’s got to be a six, at least.”_

_“Not interested, Jane. Besides, this woman doesn’t even have a real case. She’s just looking for an excuse to chat me up.”_

_“What — no. How can you tell?”_

_“Dull. She puts her phone number in her email signature after a quote by Tennyson. If that’s not desperate, then I don’t know what is. You should be careful who you find on the internet, Jane.”_

_“But —”_

— —

_“Rude.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Hello?”_

Frantic.  
 _“Where have you been?”_

_“What? Sherlock I had —”_

_“Christ, Jane! You know he’s still out there, right? And you insisting on this ridiculous self-imposed exile — do you realise how vulnerable that makes you?”_

_“Sherlock —”_

_“For days, I have called you. Weeks. There’s a pattern. And suddenly…suddenly…”_  
Ragged.

_“Sherlock! Listen to me for just – just a second, okay?”_

Silence.

Then carefully.  
 _“I needed to order a new battery for my phone. The old one is fried.”_

_“Your – your phone?”_

_“Yes.”_

Silence.

A heavy breath.

_“Damn it, Jane.”_

_“Sherlock —”_

Sharp.  
 _“When are you coming home?”_

_“I don’t — Sherlock I’m —”_

_“Never mind.”_

— —

_“Hello? H — dammit, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Sherlock.”_

Timid.  
 _“Jane. I —”_

_“Are you just going to hang up on me again?”_

_“No.”_

_“Really? You mean we’re going to talk like actual civilised people?”_

Disgruntled breath.

_“You’re angry.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“I should apologise.”_

_“Yes. You should.”_

A pause.

_“I’m…sorry…?”_

_“You don’t sound real sure.”_

_“No I am. Really.”_

Scoff.

_“What is all this about, Sherlock?”_

_“What —”_

_“Why aren’t you taking cases?”_

Combative.  
 _“When are you coming home?”_

— —

_“Jane? Hello? Oh, that really is annoying.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coolly.  
 _“Hello?”_

_“Hello, Jane.”_

Tense.  
 _“Is there something that you need?”_

_“I just, er…I…”_

_“It works both ways, you know.”_

_“Sorry?”_

_“I don’t do too well when I haven’t heard from you either.”_

Searching. Realisation.  
 _“Oh.”_

_“Yeah, ‘oh.’ It’s been a week!”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Are you?”_

_“Yes.”_

Silence.

_“Two months.”_

_“Sorry?”_

_“I’ll be back at Baker Street in two more months. Harry’s taking a journalism job in New Zealand, and I am watching her flat.”_

_“Why does she need someone to watch her flat?”_

_“I just —”_

_“She lives alone! Doesn’t have any pets…”_

_“I can’t be in London right now, okay!”_

Silence.

Quietly. Pleading.  
 _“Understand. Please understand.”_

Breath.  
 _“Good. Fine. Two months, then.”_

_“Yeah, so now that you know, you don’t have to keep calling. It’s fine.”_

_“But —”_

_“I just…never mind.”_

Silence.

Breathing. Aching.

_“Goodnight, Jane.”_

_“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_“Oh, voicemail. Well, this is tedious. Chances are you won’t even get this in a timely fashion, and the point will be moot. This is an olive branch, if you will. Which should amuse you because I really don’t do this, as you know. I’m in the middle of Tesco’s and everything; even I can appreciate the situation. The reason I am calling is because I don’t remember the brand of tea you usually get. There are so many choices, what is the point? Just…tea. That’s all I’m bloody after — oh hold on, one of the clerks is —”_

_{Sir you need to leave we are closing.}_

_“— just a moment; I’m on the phone —”_

_{Sir, you need to take your items and —}_

_“YES. All right just —”_

— —

_“Voicemail again. Do you know how irritating it is to talk to a machine? No, don’t answer that. They’re kicking me out, the idiots. I didn’t have time to find out where they keep the Hobnobs, so my tea will be biscuit-less. It’s a tragedy, I hope you’re happy. And because you didn’t answer I just bought the tea in the red box.”_

_{ITEM NOT SCANNED.}_

_“If you don’t like it then you can go get more when you come back.”_

_{ITEM NOT SCANNED.}_

_“Hold on…”_

_{ITEM NOT SCANNED. DO YOU NEED ASSISTANCE?}_

_“No, I don’t bloody need —”_

_{ITEM NOT SCANNED.}_

_{Sir, do you want to —?}_

_“NO. I’ve got it. How hard can it be to —?”_

_{ITEM NOT SCANNED. AN ATTENDANT HAS BEEN NOTIFIED TO ASSIST YOU.}_

_“Damn this infernal —”_

_{AN ATTENDANT HAS BEEN NOTIFIED TO ASSIST YOU.}_

 

— —

Frustrated sigh.  
 _“I didn’t get any tea.”_

— —

[Save voicemail for 21 days. Y/N?]

_[Y]_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laughing.

_“Yes. Ha. Ha.”_

_“Sounds like you went on an adventure at the Tesco’s the other day.”_

_“How can you stand it, Jane? It’s all so horribly dull. And frustrating.”_

_“Well someone has to get the groceries or we would starve.”_

_“Exactly. That’s why you need to come home. All I have at my disposal is Mrs. Husdon’s roast.”_

_“Oh, poor baby.”_

_“And no tea!”_

_“…That’s really sad, actually.”_

_“I know.”_

_“All Harry has in her kitchen is this weird Turkish coffee.”_

_“I’m quite fond of Turkish coffee.”_

_“Why don’t you drink it, then.”_

A beat.

_“I could.”_

_“You could, what?”_

_“Come and drink it for you.”_

_“Sherlock, I’m not sure that’s —”_

_“Surrey isn’t that far away. I could catch the last train.”_

_“You…no, Sherlock. No.”_

_“Wha – no? Why not?”_

Inhalation.

_“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”_

_“But —”_

Exhalation.

_“You can if you tell me why you’ve stopped taking cases.”_

Silence.

_“Goodnight, Jane.”_

_“Goodnight…Sherlock.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Sherlock?”_

Tight.  
 _“You didn’t answer.”_

_“It’s late. I’m sorry I was asleep.”_

Silence.

A muffled gasp.

_“Sherlock?”_

Breaths. Quick. In and out.

_“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”_

_“You…god, Jane…”_  
Hyperventilating.

_“Listen to me: deep breaths, okay?”_

Torn, tattered, air.

_“That’s it, Sherlock, calm down. Talk to me?”_

_“Pool…Moriarty…Christ!”_

Choking.

_"Breathe, Sherlock! In through your nose for eight seconds. And out for four. Do it now.”_

Trembling.  
 _“Oh, god. It was the pool, the pool Jane!”_

_“I know. I know, Sherlock, god I’m sorry. Stay with me.”_

_“I don’t — I don’t get — nightmares, Jane.”_  
Vicious pull of air.

_“It’s okay.”_

_“No! It’s not! I haven’t — I haven’t dreamt since I was in my twenties. Ow! Damn it.”_

_“What’s going on? Did you hurt yourself? Tell me where.”_

_“H – hit the mirror. Didn’t realise…”_

Steady.  
 _“My kit is in the sitting room on the desk.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Antiseptic, bandages. Keep it dry.”_

_“YES I —”_

Silence.

Breathing.

_“I should…I should go.”_

_“Sherlock? Wait —”_

— —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_“Sherlock, it’s Jane. Please answer your phone. I’ve called four times now. I haven’t heard from you. Just…I’m sorry okay? I – I messed up. I’ve been so…so consumed with my own…shit. I didn’t. I haven’t considered you in all this. You were there at the pool too. You’ve been. There. For me and I. Shit. I — please call me.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_“Sherlock. It’s Jane again. Just calling to check in. Call me back. Please.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_“Hi it’s me again. I erm…I’m just calling to say goodnight. And — oh!”_

— —

_“Sherlock?”_

_“I didn’t get to the phone. In time.”_

_“I…oh. Is – is now a good time to talk?”_

Noncommittal.  
 _“It’s…fine._

_“Did you get my messages?”_

_“Yes…”_

_“Christ, Sherlock. I’m – I’m sorry. I should have been there I should have —”_

_“Don’t.”_

Silence.

A sigh, then softly.  
 _“He’s unpredictable, Jane. He’s backed me in a corner, and that’s why I can’t take any cases.”_

 _“Who?”_  
Faltering.  
 _“Moriarty?”_

 _“Yes. He…I don’t know what he wants. I won’t play into his hands again.”_  
Frustrated groan.  
 _“It’s the only option, and it’s paralysing. But it’s the only card I have: Do Nothing. Don’t you see? It’s too big a risk.”_

_“Maybe…maybe that’s what he wants you to do. Is nothing. Like you said: paralyse you.”_

_“The thought had occurred.”_

_“Don’t let him win, then!”_

_“Jane…”_

_“No, listen! That’s what you told me. You told me not to let him win; not to let him get inside my head. Same goes for you. That’s how he works. It’s more mental than anything.”_

_“And then he blew up a three storey building, Jane!”_

_“He only did that because he knows you’re the only person who can beat him.”_

Disgusted noise.  
 _“Let the police handle it!”_

_“That doesn’t sound like the Sherlock I know.”_

Tired.  
 _“Jane —”_

_“The Sherlock I know wouldn’t let some psycho mess with his head.”_

_“Jane.”_

_“The Sherlock I know wouldn’t —”_

Thunderous.  
 _“I CAN’T LOSE YOU! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”_

Silence.

_“I can’t —”_

Quaver. Stop.

_“You won’t. Sherlock, you won’t.”_

_“You can’t know that.”_

_“Yes. I can. I promise you.”_

Silence.

Weight. Breath.

_“When are you coming home?”_

A beat.

_“Soon.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Jane.”_

_“Hi, Sherlock.”_

_“Jane, what are you doing?”_

_“I don’t know what you are talking about.”_

_“I’ve read the blog, Jane. ‘The Great Game’? Really?”_

_“It’s an exercise. Part of my therapy. Bella says blogging is good for me; helps me reintegrate into civilian life.”_

Resigned.  
 _“You should really take it down. What would Lestrade say?”_

_“I’ve blacked out all the names and such. And I got his permission to do so, so there.”_

_“No need to sound so smug.”_

_“Have you seen the hit counter? It’s through the roof! They love you, Sherlock. My inbox is overflowing with clients who want you to take their cases.”_

_“Well then they shall be severely disappointed when they find out I’m not this action hero you’ve made me out to be.”_

_“Will you just listen to this one?”_

Aggravated sigh.  
 _“Jane I told you —”_

_“Just listen. You can hang up if you want, but I’m going to tell you about it anyway.”_

_“Jane.”_

_“‘Dear Mister Holmes, my aunt Mathilde recently passed away, and they gave me an urn of her ashes. But the thing is, I know human ash, and what they gave me isn’t it’.”_

_“Boring.”_

_“Okay how about this one: ‘Dear Mister Holmes, I believe my wife is having an affair’ —”_

_“No.”_

_“‘Dear Mister Holmes, my colleague and I have this website that explains the true meaning of comic books on account of the fact that people are prone to missing all of the themes’ — ”_

_“Oh god.”_

_“Wait! Listen, listen, listen! ‘But then the comics all started coming true.’”_

Contemplative pause.  
 _“Interesting.”_

_“Right? That’s what I’m saying. It’s got to be an eight, at least.”_

_“Please. Eight is a bit high for this case.”_

_“Well why don’t you judge for yourself?”_

A beat. A sigh.

_“Come on, Sherlock. Comic books that come to life. It’s an eight.”_

_“Where do I get in touch with them?”_

Triumphant.  
 _“Hah! Yes, I will tell him to meet you at Speedy’s”_

_“You are not allowed to be this smug when you write this up.”_

_“I will be how ever I want, thank you very much. Now put on some clothes, I know you haven’t yet.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Condescending.  
 _“‘The Geek Interpreter’?”_

_“Well hello to you too.”_

_“Why do these things need a title?”_

_“They need titles.”_

_“These are just so…hackneyed. You could just number them.”_

_“The title stays! Look, I didn’t call for you to criticise my blog. There’s another case that sounds interesting. It about a woman who died in her sleep with no visible cause of death. The only thing that’s visible is these weird speckles all over her body according to the Guildford police.”_

_“Guildford…that’s in Surrey?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I’ll take the next train in.”_

_“Great. I’ll pick you up from the station.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Hello?”_

_“Do people really read your blog?”_

_“Sherlock…now’s not a good time —”_

_{Crash.}_

_“Because I don’t understand how anyone could take this as stimulating literature.”_

_“Shit.”_

_{The sound of water rushing.}_

_“Even your titles are uninventive. ‘The Speckled Blonde?’ That’s the best you could come up with?”_

_“Don’t knock my blog. Like I said that’s where all of our clients come from.”_

Indignant.  
 _“I do still have a website.”_

_“Yeah, in which you enumerate on two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash. No one is reading your website.”_

_{Smoke alarm.}_

_“Jane?”_

_“Dammit!”_

_“Are you trying to cook, Jane?”_

_“I have to call you back.”_

_“It’s two hundred and forty-three, Jane!”_

— —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _“Jane?”_  
Clears throat.

_“Were you sleeping?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Sorry, I’ll just —”_

_“No, no, it’s fine. I’m awake.”_

Tremor. Hitched breath.

_“Jane? What’s the matter?”_

_“Just…stay on the line with me?”_

_“…Okay.”_

-  
-  
-

Silence.

_"Sherlock?"_

Silence. 

Whispered.  
 _"I want to come home."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_Jane. Where are you? Call me back._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— —

_Jane. This is urgent. Call. Me._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Strident.  
 _“Where have you been? I’ve been calling!”_

_“I know I’m sorry I didn’t have time. I did text though.”_

_“Time? What do you mean you didn’t have time?”_

_“Well I was going to tell you —”_

_“A Ten, Jane!”_

_“Wait, what?”_

_“A. TEN. Lestrade has a Ten for us.”_

A beat.

Excited.  
 _“You mean…?”_

_“Triple homicide locked room. On a cruise ship.”_

_“No!”_

_“The Tilly Briggs Cruise Liner!”_

_“Well isn’t that something. Now I don't know what to get you for Christmas.”_

_“Yes and then we —”_  
Pause. Backpedal.  
 _“I mean if you’re amenable…to er. You’d have to come back to London, and, well…”_

Laughing.

_“What? If you don’t want to go then all you have to do is —”_

_“Shut up you berk. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”_

_“What?”_

A beat.

_[“Look out the window.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/3360902)_


End file.
